


On the Precipice

by Angela



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angela/pseuds/Angela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love. To Gimli it seemed an absurd concept, as though loving someone were to be compared to falling into a pond or from a cliff. As if there were any chance of righting yourself, of grasping a nearby tree or shrub and hauling yourself back to your feet and out of danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet is decidedly book-verse. I allude to a conversation between Aragorn and Éowyn that takes place during chapter two of _RotK_ , "The Passing of the Grey Company." It plays out a bit differently in the movie, so I thought I should clarify.

Falling in love. To Gimli it seemed an absurd concept, as though loving someone were to be compared to falling into a pond or from a cliff. As if there were any chance of righting yourself, of grasping a nearby tree or shrub and hauling yourself back to your feet and out of danger.

Dwarves were not given that chance. They loved only once, and for them it was as quick and altering as a bolt of lightning, usually the first time they ever beheld the face of their love. A fall suggested a transition – a period, however small, of being suspended in the air, no longer on one bit of ground and not yet landing on another. Dwarves went instantly from one state to the next; it was something they were proud of. None of the pussyfooting of men for them.

It did not always lead to the best matches, of course – Gimli knew more than one dwarf who was overfond of work and drink and anything else that kept him out of the home he shared with a shrewish, stingy, or otherwise overzealous wife. It wasn't that these dwarves didn't love their wives – on the contrary, they lived and died for them – it was just that sometimes who you love and who you can live with don't align just right.

Gimli considered himself fortunate to have missed out on that particular blessing. He was one hundred-forty years old, a good thirty or forty past the dangerous age when most dwarves settle down and start families. He'd met a lot of dwarrowdams in his years. Beautiful dwarrowdams, some of them, and more than a few perfectly willing, or so it seemed to Gimli. Not that he ever pressed that advantage – without love there didn't seem to be much point, and he could safely say that love had struck him with none he'd met. Not even the beautiful Lady of the Wood, though hearing her fair voice speak the language of his cradle left him reeling for a time.

There was little enough chance that he would lose his heart now.

It only was watching Éowyn pine for Aragorn that made his mind wander in that direction at all. It was heartbreaking, the way the fierce warrior threw herself into his path over and over again, only to be turned away at each encounter. She seemed to have been struck in the dwarvish way, suddenly and with no say in the matter. For her sake, Gimli hoped that she had the same fickle heart of most of the men he'd met. Aragorn, with his quiet fidelity for the Lady Arwen, was of a different sort, but most men and women he'd known were capable of moving from one love to the next with a fluidity that astounded him.

They were in Dunharrow, in the morn to embark upon the ill-omened Paths of the Dead. Gimli and Legolas were preparing for what little sleep they would steal that night, both pretending they could not hear the heated words that passed between their leader and shieldmaiden.

“Can the lady not see that he knows better than she?” Legolas asked at last, his voice no more than a hiss in the darkness.

Gimli was silent a moment longer, uncomfortable with the criticism, even as he saw the echo of truth in it. “It is never pleasant to be left behind,” he said at last. He wasn't sure that Legolas had ever felt the sting of being singled out, of being told to stay home when there was adventure and glory to be had, but for Gimli it was not a feeling he had ever forgotten. “Had I my way, I would let her fight.”

Legolas chuckled. “You made no such protest when we left Merry behind,” he reminded him softly.

“I know not what our path will bring us, what perils we will face,” Gimli explained. “And I would not see either of the little ones hurt.” Although Merry was fierce and brave and had seen more fighting than most of his kind, he was no warrior trained. And Gandalf had stewardship of Pippin; Gimli trusted the wizard to keep him safe.

“Perhaps Aragorn has such a care for Lady Éowyn,” Legolas suggested. “Perhaps it is love of her that moves him?”

That seemed not the way of things to Gimli, though he'd be the last person to claim to know the hearts of men. “She is capable enough,” he said instead. “That does not change, no matter Aragorn's feelings.”

The elf was quiet for a long stretch, and the darkness was close and comfortable. Gimli could see the shadowy shape of him silhouetted against the canvas wall of their booth, the torches outside providing just enough glow for his cavern-trained eyes. It seemed to Gimli that he was tense.

“There are those I would keep from harm, though they would not thank me for it,” the elf said at last, his voice strange and soft. “Perhaps, since he cannot keep the Lady Éowyn in his sights always, he would have her stay far from danger.”

The sharp terror of Helm's Deep flashed through Gimli's mind. “It is a torment, losing track of those you care for during a battle,” he conceded, feeling at once that they spoke not entirely of Aragorn and Éowyn, but unable to puzzle out the intangible other meaning that hung amidst their words. “But still, I say I would have her with us. One more sword against the enemy, in my view.”

Legolas shifted on his bed, a sigh escaping his lips. “I agree with Aragorn,” he said at last. “I have a desire to protect what is precious. If we defeat the enemy at the cost of all that is beautiful in the world, then what victory will we have?”

Gimli glanced sharply toward his friend. He had grown accustomed to the peculiar, elf-ness of Legolas, but this was too melancholy. He wondered how long it had been since his friend had slept – really slept, not just what passed for it among his kind. Only three nights had passed since the Battle of the Hornburg, scarcely enough to put a soul to rights before heading off to fight again, especially without proper rest.

“Have you never worried,” the elf continued, unfamiliar emotion in his tone, “though you know your friend strong and stout and capable, that serious harm may befall him nonetheless?”

Something caught in Gimli's throat. “Aye,” he said at last, his words thick. “I suppose I have.”

Legolas sighed once more, a different sound from the previous, and Gimli's heart stuttered. For a moment the night and the darkness seemed altered around him and he had the strangest feeling of being suspended in the air. As though he were falling.


End file.
